Of Fire And Ice
by LoneWolfLoverGirl
Summary: FingonMaedhros slash mostly Fingon's point of view, but some Maedhros between Losgar and Fingon's rescue of Maedhros.


**A/N:** Please excuse any screwups in terms of canon - I did try and check things (mostly because I had to look up spellings anyway), but I have been known to pick up on my little mistakes and miss the giant bloopers...and I don't have a beta-reader...

* * *

There's ice in his bones. The chill sinks deep. 

But all the way, through the ice and the dark, through the bitterness that chills their bodies and the greater bitterness that chills their hearts, he carries a flame with him that keeps him warm.

Sometimes, the chill near overcomes it, and it dims to an ember, red-gleaming in the dark of his mind. Sometimes, he's so weary he feels he could die (and behind him, on that icy road, are the bodies of those who have), and the flame is all that keeps him moving, though his limbs are stiff with cold and weariness.

When ice groans in the night, when a crevasse opens at their feet, gaping like a hungry monster to swallow them, when rocks come crashing down from some high precipice above, cracking and crushing all in their path, he remembers that flame, and he keeps moving.

When he struggles on, dragging one foot after the other, and beside him his brother walks, dull-eyed, he remembers that flame. Selfishly, he hoards it in his heart, as Turgon beside him walks like one dead, his flame cold and dead in an ice-grave far behind.

When flames lit the clouds on the horizon over Losgar, when the host of Fingolfin stood on the shore and knew despair, the flame in his heart scorched him. With the bitter cold anger of betrayal he could not douse it, nor could the biting winds of the Helcaraxë extinguish it. And across the ice he holds it now, burning in his heart, however cold the thoughts that run through his mind.

A copper-red flame, dancing in the sunlight. A laugh as free as the wind that blew around them. Two bodies entangled on the grass, laughing, long dark hair tangled with red, as grey eyes meet grey eyes, and laughter dies into sudden stillness and the quiet moment when there is nothing to say, nothing to do, but rejoice in this moment and simply _be ._

Fingers brush, skin on skin. Hands clasp in friendship, cool skin and strong bones under his grip, strangely sensual.

Hair dancing in a clifftop breeze – a rhapsody in red against the grey sea.

Grass underfoot, cool and damp against his skin.

The mingling of the lights, and cool air on his skin making every touch of warmth a kiss.

Moments that keep him moving through the desolate ice.

Moments that he will not let be drowned out by fire in the sky and kinsman's blood tinting the sea-foam. Because then all would be ice and cold and betrayal and black despair.

And the thought of auburn hair tangled in his fingers and warm skin against him keeps the cold at bay a little, brings colour to this world of white and grey and blue ice-shadows.

And they come out of the ice at last, diminished and weary, and the trumpets sound over a new land, and the first sunrise tints the mountains pink and gold.

And bitter as he is, bitter and betrayed, and wearied by the long trek they have been forced to suffer, he looks in this new land for his companion of happier days in a land left far behind.

He looks and does not find.

And the dawn dims a little for him.

And though they are not his friends now, those who left them standing on the shore, watching the ships burn, still, he remembers that flame. And when they tell him of what has befallen Fëanor he cannot help but feel a murmur of satisfaction in his heart. But at the fate of Maedhros he cannot rejoice.

Betrayal. Burning. Reddened clouds over Losgar. Loss. Abandonment. Despair. Death. Blood. Ice … Love.

It whispers in at the end of every tally he makes of the wrongs he's suffered. And it's what makes the abandonment all the worse… who it was that left him.

But even in his bitterest thoughts, he cannot deny – even now, he loves him.

Even now.

And the flame that burnt in him and brought him across the Grinding Ice, determined and steadfast, brings him across the bleak expanse of Morgoth's domain. The flame brings him through the covering dark, up the slopes of harsh Thangorodrim.

The flame burns defiantly behind his eyes as he raises his voice, sole singer in the desolate land, daring the Orcs and fell beasts of Angband, daring the dark with a song of life.

And when a voice rises, faltering and faint, to join his, the flame in his heart dances so high it burns with joy at the sound.

And burning with it, he climbs fast and hard up rocky scree and slag, heedless of the rocks he sends tumbling away behind him, skittering down the mountainside.

At the foot of the sheer wall he halts, despairing, and his heart pains him, because above him and out of reach, desperately distant and yet heart-achingly close, hangs his brother-friend-betrayer.

And the flame calls out. And tears spring to the eyes of the proud elf-warrior who stands, helpless, at the foot of the crag.

And despair bites his heart.

And despair bites too the heart of Maedhros, where he hangs high above his kinsman, bound and anguished, knowing they cannot reach each other, and he begs for death to release him from his torment.

And, weeping, Fingon sets an arrow to his bowstring. He blinks back tears that try to cloud his vision – his aim must be true, at least, if he must do this – but even through that veil, he could see the copper flame above him.

He bends the bow, weeping, and as he draws back the string he cries out to Manwë, cries for pity from the bottom of his burning heart.

And from the skies above swoops the mighty eagle, and he lowers his bow. And Thorondor, huge beneath him, bears him upward.

And on the face of the cliff, they touch – two hands, two hearts. Two pairs of sorrowing eyes, hardened by fell deeds and suffering, meet, and see in each other a recollection of happier days.

A memory that hurts rather than heals, for here they are, and now they are, and happy yesterdays are no more than taunts. Because here on the rock face, they touch, weary-hearted and worn, and here they speak of things best forgotten, as Fingon wrestles with Maedhros's bond.

A bond wrought by some dark power that will not be removed. A lockless shackle that cannot be severed, on a pin that will not wrench free from the rock.

And Maedhros, who for so long has learnt to harden his heart and despair, to do nothing but endure his torment, watches this sudden beaming hope fade, and blackest despair takes him.

And tears burn his eyes, his voice catches in his throat, and he begs Fingon for the only remaining release. And the other Elf's eyes show he knows what he must do.

With a deep and ragged breath, Maedhros looks to Fingon and faintly smiles. He closes his eyes, despises his cowardice in asking Fingon to do this for him.

He would do it himself if he could, spare Fingon this. Enough suffering and torment already, he and his family have wrought. Theirs is the blame for all that has passed, all the suffering he sees in the other's deep grey eyes. Perhaps, in the halls of Mandos, in ages yet to come, he will see those eyes smile again.

Here, on the face of Thangorodrim, there can be only tears.

He waits.

But the pain he waits for hits him not in the heart, as he expected, but in the arm. He opens his eyes, wide in surprise, as, Fingon, wild-eyed and desperate, cuts off his right hand.

A small price to pay, for life.

And feathers beneath them, and the motion of mighty muscles as the wingbeats of Thorondor bear them away. And limp and spent and bloody, he slips in and out of consciousness as they fly.

But all the while, every time he wakes, there are arms around him, and he is safe. And they lie on the back of the great eagle of Manwë, in each others arms, and their hair mingles, all one hue now, darkened with dirt and matted with blood.

Wasted and worn they may be. Tired and spent, scarred and changed. But the flame of Fingon's love rises warm. No funeral pyre now, no flaming torch. No failing ember in the dark.

The hearth-fire of a place where they belong. Together.


End file.
